


Hell on Hind Legs

by bubblesbythebeach



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesbythebeach/pseuds/bubblesbythebeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't like dogs. But really, he's over-reacting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell on Hind Legs

**Author's Note:**

> [Johnlock Challenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/) thingy I left far too late when I should be working on other things as well.
> 
> Only purpose is to supplement [this image](http://bubblesbythebeach.tumblr.com/post/41513390171)

A dog achieves much the same effect as a fire, if only in a much more insiduous form. Sherlock’s priorities run clear:

One: Classification and assessment.

“What the hell is that?!”

“ _The hell_ is called Toby.”

Two: Preservation of existing environment. The dog (well it’s got furry ears and a wet nose and miserable brown eyes and John’s got the leash in his hand that’s enough to be going with don’t you think) is why Sherlock suddenly throws the length of his body against the kitchen doorway. He stretches one arm up to the ceiling, sweaty hand planted on the doorjamb and his shirt wrinkling under his strenuous efforts.

John creases his mouth oddly, unwilling to laugh properly until all this confusion is sorted out. “Sherlock...?”

“I’ve got three different experiments on open surfaces, all involving glass equipment. I’ll not have that _thing_ waddling in here under the table,” Sherlok huffs. His right arm isn’t sore in the slightest; he can stand guard here until John extricates the creature. (It’s lowering its head, sniffing at the ankle of John’s trousers. Hasn’t settled down on its haunches yet. Fine.)

Sherlock puts his other hand on his hip. Three: Other matters. “Mrs Hudson will throw the both of you out,” he tells John sharply.

“Left my jacket up here and I couldn’t leave him outside on his own,” John huffs back. He turns to the dog (part spaniel, by the ears, mongrel everywhere else; good lord, the creature was panting) and says, “Stay.”

John strides all the way over to the writing desk with Toby starting to lope behind his heels, despite his command, before Sherlock growls in frustration, reaches for John’s grey button-up jacket on the back of a kitchen chair and throws it to him.

Sherlock glares up and down John’s body as he shrugs the jacket on. He reaches his conclusions. “Out, and tell Will bloody Mason that you’re never available for dog-sitting _ever again_!”

*

It turned out that Toby was quiet and entirely harmless, though he did lope after John whenever he was meant to keep still. John’s only responsibility for the week was to pick Toby up from his friend’s parents, who were happy to keep Toby in their house while their son Will was away but weren’t up to walking him the distance he needed to go, walk him a few times around a nice park, and drop him back off. Really, Sherlock was over-reacting.

“There’s nothing _in_ my damn pants,” he roars, “so get your dripping nose out of there!”

John stops on the path and turns to look over Toby curiously – he might have a bit of collie in there, actually, to give him such a thin and elongated form. “Sherlock, a dog can’t help how _tall_ he is, alright? If Toby’s head comes up to your crotch then you deal with it!”

Sherlock throws up his gloved hands. “Firstly, his head comes up to my _knee._ He keeps reaching up, damn him. _There’s nothing to interest you there, creature._ And John, _you_ obviously don’t have to put up with this frankly infuriating treatment.”

“Really, another crack about my height, gee, thanks.”

Sherlock’s chin is pressed resolutely to his chest as he keeps his eye on Toby and shuffles a few paces backwards. Toby’s soft muzzle follows and nudges up Sherlock’s thigh, his nose bumping into the grey flap of fabric covering Sherlock’s zipper. John’s only contribution is to cover his face and laugh, shoulders shaking.

“That’s it, I’m going back to the flat. I’ll get the pond algae samples _tomorrow_ ,” Sherlock snaps.

“Oh, seriously, Sherlock—” John says to the flapping tails of Sherlock’s coat. “It’s a nice day, come on—” But Sherlock only raises one hand to wave a semi-furious goodbye, and without even looking back.

But it’s a funny thing: once Sherlock is out of sight and John walks a few minutes down the path, the fellow dog-walkers who come up close to him to let their pets greet and walk alongside Toby, are exclusively women, gazing appraisingly at Toby’s long coat before raising their eyes to John with blushing cheeks.

*

“John, wait a moment.”

John looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock forcing his scarf into a loop around his neck. “I’m off to the Masons – what is it?”

Sherlock sniffs and says, “I’m coming with you.”

“But you hate Toby.”

The only answer John gets is a shrug, and it’s he who follows Sherlock out the door and down the stairs.

*

“Sherlock, what—?”

Sherlock coughs gruffly and keeps walking. Never mind the fact that he’d abruptly jammed his arm into the crook of John’s elbow and they’re now striding along with their arms linked.

“Honestly John? You came home with four different types of dog hair on your clothes yesterday. One belonged to Toby and the others belonged to the conga line of women batting their eyes at you.” Sherlock tilted his head. “Well, not to _them_ the women,” he corrects, “but to their own dogs, which they allowed to get rather _close_ to you, hmm?”

John pointedly shifts his hand inside his pocket, tugging on Sherlock’s arm to get him to walk slower. He glances down for an instant at their locked elbows. “You’re not into the whole PDA thing.” A statement, but curious.

“Don’t want to take too long. Propositioning women slow you down, John, they always have, even if you do have the courtesy to set the record straight. You used to be very enthusiastic about that, when our circumstances were different.” A wry smile twists Sherlock’s mouth even then.

“Ah! And here I thought you were happy to just walk with me and Toby,” John laughs. He clicks his tongue at Toby, shuffling ahead of them on his leash, before rolling his shoulder again. “You don’t actually have to cling to me, you know, Sherlock. I reckon your _forbidding glare_ is enough to chase the ladies off.”

“Hmph.”

Toby suddenly veers to the right, making for a row of trees at the base of a low grassy hill. Sherlock only rolls his eyes at the detour, curls of white riding out on his lower lip when he breathes out in the autumn air.

John chuckles deep in his chest at Sherlock’s reaction. “You _really_ don’t like dogs, do you?” he said, grinning. He unclips Toby’s leash before the dog does figure-eights around the trees.

“A whole lot of mess and entirely useless,” is Sherlock’s short reply.

“Yeah? What about guard dogs, then? Sniffers? Come on, sniffer dogs, you have to have thought about using one on a case before.”

Sherlock’s frown is ice cold. “Lestrade calls me in for _my_ skills. What does that say about me if I then in turn have to call in a dog?”

John jerks his head at Toby, still wandering around the in the leaf litter. “Toby’s got a better sense of smell than you, definitely. Everyone knows that about dogs.”

“I doubt it. He’s got one foot in the grave, John. Two feet, come to think of it.”

The way Sherlock separates his arm from John's and pulls sharply at his collar makes John think before he speaks. The look on John’s face is one he wears often – open, clear blue eyes – as if he can’t quite believe something Sherlock’s just done, but still, he waits.

“You’ve never had a pet dog, have you?” He pauses, licks his lips. “No, maybe you have. But maybe he wasn’t yours, not really. Um…”

“Dogs.”

“Beg pardon?”

Sherlock’s collar is all the way up now, just brushing his cheeks, and he lowers his eyes so they're shaded by his fringe. “Father had three.”

“Oh.”

“Stupid creatures. They had free rein over the house, got hair all over the furniture and never once refrained from licking any body part in reach. Particularly fond of my face, though,” Sherlock snarls.

John laughs outright. “I wouldn’t blame them, pretty one like yours!”

Sherlock’s eyes close in an expression that wordlessly screamed, _God’s sake, John._

“What, so. Your dad’s dogs died on you, then?”

“Irrelevant. Are we going, now?”

John whistles. “Come on, Toby.” He bends onto one knee to clip the leash back onto Toby’s collar. “Not going to offer your arm again, Sherlock?” he smirks when he gets back up.

“Please.”

“Pat on the head, then, come on.” The silliest grin is growing on his face now. “Ruffle the hair a bit, you know you want to. Promise I haven’t got fleas.”

“What the hell has gotten into you, John?”

John’s done with the joke, and only yanks on Sherlock’s scarf, and Sherlock feels breath and skin swipe across his mouth for the barest second. A moue of surprise is all he has time to make before John is back where he was.

“ _The hell_ is just John Watson. That’s all.”

Sherlock rethinks his policy on public displays of affection then and there, and, well, John's tongue goes right where he wants it.


End file.
